The floor seemed to drop out from under her. He knew her nickname. Of course, it wasn’t a secret. Almost everyone on the reservation called her that. But, still, the fact that he knew it made her skin pickle with unease and her breath stall in her lungs. The way he said it was personal, like he’d heard it straight from the source—her grandmother or maybe Julius running his mouth at the casino.
Or maybe he’d been watching her long before now.
Naomi forced herself to match his stare, even as cold sweat crawled down her spine.
“You’re making a mistake,” she said. “Let us go. Walk away now, and you can still salvage something. There’s always a deal on the table if you’re smart enough to take it.”
He laughed again, but it wasn’t real laughter—it was cracked, the sound of a man who’d broken something inside himself and just kept going. “You’re not in a position to bargain.”
She tested the paracord, twisting just enough to bite down on the ache in her wrist and keep her expression even. “That’s where you’re wrong. You’re not the one in control here. You’re just a delivery service. You take orders. You’re scared of whoever’s coming to pick us up, aren’t you? That’s why you keep dosing the girls. You’re scared they’ll get out and make you look incompetent.”
A flicker of something in his eyes. She’d hit a nerve.
Angel gaped at her, round-eyed. Tariah made a low, animal sound and thrashed weakly against her bonds. The man didn’t react. He waited, arms crossed, letting her dig her own grave.
Fuck it. She’d dig. “I know your type. You sign on thinking it’ll be easy money, but it always, always gets messy. You start out running errands, but then somebody higher up the food chain gets greedy and you end up with blood on your boots and a target on your back. And for what? A couple grand and the chance to pretend you’re not just a disposable thug. That sound about right?”
His fist cracked across her cheek. The world stuttered, then went white-hot with pain. Naomi hit the floor hard enough to bite through her own tongue. Blood flooded her mouth, thick and metallic.
He wrapped a hand around her braid and pulled her head up. “Rabbits are only good for one thing. Getting hunted. You’re nothing but prey.”
twenty-one
Ghost didn’t remember turningoff the engine. Didn’t remember hauling the laptop and phone out of the truck. When he hit the Hub, it was as if his body was running on pure adrenaline, no room for hesitation or doubt.
The wind battered the open door behind him, banging it against the wall, but he ignored the racket and crossed to the desk, shoving the stuff on top aside—maps, notebooks, gear, all of it. Cinder flinched back at the noise, hackles up, tail stiff.
He didn’t look at her. Couldn’t. He just yanked the blackout curtains all the way shut and hit the lights, plunging the place into a darkness broken only by the cold glow of the monitors.
He dropped into the chair, pain zigzagging up his spine, and grabbed the cheap burner cell he’d kept charged in a Faraday pouch for exactly this purpose. The number was dark ops—buried so deep in encrypted layers that even the government would have to bleed to find it.
His thumb hovered over the call button.
This was a bad idea. A truly fucking suicidal idea. But he didn’t have any other cards left to play.
He hit dial.
The line pinged off satellites, then rang once, twice, three times. The fourth ring was just static, then a click—open line, but no voice.
He waited, breathing through the acid eating at his throat. His hands wanted to shake, but he forced them still against the edge of the desk. Cinder whined, pacing at his feet, her anxiety a mirror for his own.
Finally, a woman laughed. “Well,” Isolde Mara said in the low, unbothered purr of a voice that had once talked him into all kinds of evil shit, back when he was angry at the world and wanted to hurt everyone. “Ghost. Is that you?”
“Cut the shit. You know it is.”
A pause as an old lighter clicked. She’d always made a ritual of lighting her cigarettes. After a moment, she exhaled, and he swore he could smell the smoke through the phone.
“It’s been a long time. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
He focused on the far wall, his free hand curling into a fist, nails digging half-moons into his palm. “You’re going to listen. And you’re going to listen carefully.”
Her sigh said she was bored already, but he heard the annoyance just under it. She hadn’t expected this. Good.
“You release Naomi Lefthand—unharmed, immediately. If you don’t, or if anything happens to her, the drive is going to every major media outlet in the world. Evidence, ops, every name you ever burned to climb that ladder. I will salt the earth so nothing grows back.”
She was silent for a long moment. On screen, the motion cameras flickered with static, lightning cracking the night and painting the whole Hub in bone-white flashes.
A soft, dangerous laugh carried through the speaker. “Have you been drinking, Owen? Because I haven’t the faintest idea what you’re talking about. Who is Naomi Lefthand? Should I be jealous?”
